


Someone To Watch Over Me

by DixieDale



Series: The Life and Times of One Peter Newkirk [18]
Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 12:49:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14737262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: His point of view:  Sooner or later, everyone disappointed him, failed to live up to expectations.  Why was he the only one who kept his mind on the job, knew what had to be accomplished, managed to get it done?? In his more introspective moments he thought it just wasn't fair for someone like him to have to put up with such inferior material.  He thought back to all the others, thought back to Charlie who he'd finally had to give up on, right before he accepted this assignment.  He'd had such hopes, always such hopes.  When was he going to find someone who had what it took, could live up to his expectations?Their point of view:  One more tiny space where you can't breathe.  One more confrontation with bigoted assholes who think you don't deserve your rank because of your color.  One more episode of breathing in chemicals the human body wasn't intended to breathe on a regular basis.  One more time of trying to force damaged hands to perform tasks they just can't quite manage.  When all that you have left to give just isn't quite good enough for the one in charge, what do you do then?   You look out for each other, and maybe, if you're lucky, there'll be someone else - 'someone to watch over me'.





	Someone To Watch Over Me

"Bloody 'ell! That was just way too close!" Peter leaned back into the shadows of the building, trying to control his breathing so the passing men wouldn't hear him; trying rather less successfully to control his racing heart. He didn't like thinking of telling Hogan about this; the Colonel didn't take failure well, and for Peter to come all this way, risk this much and NOT be able to open that safe, well, he just knew how those lips would pinch together and that jaw tighten; he could just as easily hear that voice, the one that could be low and passionate, or heartily congratulatory, or softly encouraging; well, he knew quite well that voice could also be harsh, sarcastic and condemning. He'd been hearing it more often lately, along with that accusatory look in Hogan's brown eyes.

He quickly made his way back to the rendezvous point, meeting Carter and LeBeau; a quick headshake let them know it was a bust, and the quick looks they gave each other reflected his own state of mind. They got back to camp right at the changing of the guard at the camp, and had to wait for a few minutes til they could open the entrance to the tunnel and get back in safely. His hands ached with the cold, even through the gloves he wore, and it wasn't just his hands, but up his arms into his shoulders. Finally, the way was clear and they hurried down.

Kinch was there to meet them, "Colonel's over with Klink. How'd it go?" though he had a pretty good idea from the look on their faces, frustrated, apprehensive, and that look on Newkirk's face, well, the self-condemnation worried Kinch. The Englishman had been more withdrawn recently, as more and more had gone wrong; well, things had been going more and more wrong for all of them, but the Colonel was riding the Englishman harder than the rest, and it showed.

He wondered if the constant criticism wasn't part of the reason that Newkirk missed his mark more often now, maybe the more he worried about being criticized, the more he flubbed the job, and Kinch wondered if that was what was going on with him, but for the first time, he really paid attention as his team mate sat rubbing his hands. He saw ridges, now, and knots he'd not noticed, swelling in the joints. He'd seen those same signs of trouble on his father's hands, and his grandfather's, {"arthritis, and not just the first signs of it, but further along. Why didn't we notice? Why hasn't he said something?"}

But he knew why. The job still needed to get done, there wasn't anything that could be done other than just what Newkirk was doing now, massaging, deep, deeper, working the joints. They didn't have anyone else with anywhere near the skill to fill in, and the Englishman was stubborn enough to keep going when anyone else would just throw in the towel. Still, {"he's gonna get himself killed out there, or one of us, maybe turn the whole operation. Hogan has to know; he sees everything; why hasn't he pulled him back, used him for the impersonations, the other stuff that the arthritis wouldn't affect so much."}

When he thought of it, though, Kinch realized one thing was true, what Newkirk had told him one time, "Kinch, me 'ands, they're me livelihood, they are." The pick pocketing, the safecracking, the cards, the forgery, hell, even the tailoring - he needed strong, supple hands for all of that. Yeah, his friend was in trouble. He was still staring, when he felt those eyes on him, and he raised his gaze to looking into those blue-green eyes, and together they acknowledged the truth. Newkirk was in deep trouble. 

"What do you mean, you couldn't get in? You said you'd opened that type of safe before! I know damn WELL you've opened that type of safe before! I risk three men on a job that should have been a piece of cake, and you come back empty handed. Carter and LeBeau did their part! Just what's the problem??" They heard the harsh voice through the door, and the room was still, the men looking from one to another. They'd each been on the other end of that voice recently, though not as often, perhaps not as harshly. They knew there wasn't anything they could do for Newkirk, not in there, and probably not a hell of a lot once he got back out here. And, he had his pride; he'd not welcome them stepping in between him and Hogan.

"Just like I said, I couldn't get in. Couldn't find that last tumbler." And with a defiant look, held out his hands, finally admitting it, "me 'ands couldn't feel it, Colonel." He looked down at them, the roughened skin, the trauma caused by cold, hard labor, the occasional use of his fists, an episode or two with the Gestapo, and slowly looked up at Hogan, "I just couldn't feel it." He hung his head; he was the expert, he was the one supposed to be able to do all that sort of thing, him and his 'magic fingers'. {"Well, they aren't so bloody magic any more, are they,"} he thought bitterly.

"Elsewhere, this wouldn't 'ave 'appened for a long time, most likely, but . . ." Hogan took a deep breath, looking at those hands, seeing all the missions that couldn't be accomplished now, seeing the added risk of discovery if Newkirk fumbled at the wrong place, at the wrong time.

"Are you saying this is my fault?" he snapped.

Newkirk's eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped, "Bloody 'ell, acourse not! Just the way things worked out; if I'm gonna blame anyone, I'd blame old fancy moustache for starting this bleedin' war! Just . . ." He looked at Hogan, but his commanding officer had that tight pinched look on his face again, and wasn't meeting his eye.

"Alright, you're dismissed. See what you can do about getting those hands back in shape before our next mission!"

Peter rose from the chair, looking at Hogan, stunned. {"What the bleedin 'ell does 'e think I'm gonna be able to do about them??! I've tried what I could, talked to Wilson, nothin seems to 'elp much, and they 'urt so bloody much, all the way up to me shoulders and back!"} He shook his head, and went out the door, shutting it softly behind him. He went to the stove, thinking to pour himself a cup of the weak coffee, but seeing how his hands were shaking, decided that'd not be a good idea. He didn't say anything to anyone, just stepped on the edge of Carter's bunk and stretched out in his own bunk, staring at the bareboard ceiling. No one approached him; they knew better; not now, he couldn't take it, not now.

LeBeau had gotten the dressing down two weeks ago; Hogan had ordered him into the trunk of a visiting staff car, but he couldn't do it the second time. He was a small man, but the staff car was one of the new ones made for speed; it was less than half the size of the trunk in one of the older ones. The first trip, he thought his heart was going to burst, and by the time he was released by his team mates, he was white and shaking, and started throwing up. He told Hogan he couldn't do it again, his claustrophobia just couldn't handle it, but when the staff car made another visit and Hogan decided to use it as transport to get a message to the Underground, he'd ordered LeBeau again.

"I cannot, mon Colonel, I am most sorry, but I cannot!"

Hogan was livid, not yelling, just quietly angry, and some of his comments made LeBeau squirm, but he knew he'd almost lost control on that last trip, had come close to screaming and banging on the trunk lid.

{"I do NOT see how me getting caught in a German staff car and turned over to the Gestapo will help anything!"} Newkirk and Kinch had tried to get Hogan to understand, but the response hadn't been good.

Carter hadn't gotten a dressing down, just an incredulous look and the statement, "so you didn't get the explosives ready? So that minor explosion I had to convince Klink was road construction was what? You dropped a test tube?"

Explaining that the fumes had gotten to him, he'd passed out and dropped the vial, causing the mild rumble and poof of grey smoke, and that was the last of the supplies, til the next drop from the Underground was embarrassing. He didn't like having anyone mad at him, but he didn't really see that it was all his fault. It was close quarters down there, and of course they couldn't have ventiliation or the Germans would figure things out right quick, with the fumes and occasional smoke drifting out.

Still, he was getting worried about breathing in all that stuff, he could smell it in his sleep, and those headaches were coming more frequently now, and his chest felt, well, fuzzy, if that made any sense. Peter was keeping a close watch on him, and had pulled him out of his lab on more than one occasion with a muttered, "Andrew, you've got to get a breath of real air once in awhile, you know! Can't keep sucking in this muck!" 

Kinch had come in for his share, not a lot, but enough to tighten his jaw. The new guys that came in from that last bombing raid gone bad, well, they hadn't been too happy about sharing the tunnel with a black man, or being told to take orders from him. It'd gotten nasty, and he'd and Newkirk had to come up with a good explanation for that set of bruises when Klink had noticed them, Newkirk having heard the row and joined in so that those flyers had retreated to their cots with their own set of lumps and bruises.

That crew had been sent on their way in just a few days, but he'd heard from Hogan about using some common sense, just trying not to provoke them, keep things calm.

{"Yeah, when it's the color of my skin that's 'provoking' them, how'm I supposed to fix that??!"}

Newkirk had found him fuming in the tunnel after the lecture from Hogan, and sat listening to him, quietly, heard him out, and afterwards, had said, "it's 'ard, ain't it, fighting for your country, fighting for those back 'ome, when your country, when so many of those back 'ome, wouldn't cross the road to spit on you if you were on fire? And then being told, more or less, it's your fault, you've got to be the one to 'not provoke them'" and Kinch gaped at him. The bitter understanding in the Englishman's eyes was overwhelming, and Kinch finally admitted to himself what he'd probably known for a long time - Newkirk was in much the same boat he was.

A harsh chuckle, as Peter thought to himself, {"least I 'ave it some better, ain't as easy for them who'd use their fists on me as it could be. Leastwise, ain't so obvious with me, and I work bloody 'ard for it to be that way."} Kinch took the opportunity to ask what he'd wanted to since he'd heard about, then met Caeide, seeing what he knew about the relationship between Newkirk and Hogan.

"What about her, Caeide? The other women? All the talk. Is that all a smokescreen?"

"Oh, no, mate, not at all. Like the women just fine," and with a wry twist of his lips, "just, like the blokes as well. Always 'ave."

"And, Caeide?"

"Do ya mean, does she know? Oh, acourse, always 'as. Well, you've 'eard those letters from Coura and her brother; ain't anything uncommon in 'er Clan, nothing they see to kick up a fuss about. Just 'ow a person is, some like one or tother, some like both. Just like there often being three instead of two in a 'pairing', just one a the ways a family can be made up, nothing to stare at. She's never gotten the dust up about it, never let it change anything. Though, Kinch, there's many that would, so I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't go talking about it."

Kinch shook his head; that wasn't something he could understand, well, hadn't at one time and maybe not still, and not something he thought he could approve of, no matter that episode when Garrison's team had been here; anyway, sometimes he almost convinced himself he'd only imagined that. But he was pretty sure he wasn't being asked to approve of it, just Newkirk trusting him not to go blabbing around about it. He looked at the man who'd pulled him out of trouble more than once, who'd pulled off mission after mission, always there, complaining, hectoring, protecting, supporting, helping, and nodded, "understood, friend," and got a slight smile in return. 

***

She was in the cliffs overlooking Haven, but on the inland side; there wasn't much there in the way of graze or land usable for cropping, so it had been mostly left alone, other than some occasional gathering of useful plants, or a bit of hunting for the larder. She was being cautious, as always, for there were deep cracks that could throw you off balance, weed filled crevices that would be far too easy to stumble into, and the place was just ripe for adders.

"I ever get the time or the extra money, I need to figure out what to do with this place," but she also knew it was a place where the wildfowl bred, and the wild coneys, and she liked the idea of leaving some places for them. She just hated having to trek through all this. She'd left the mare at the far side of the area she was in now, the footing too unsure to risk doing otherwise, but she'd found the tracks indicating Duggan had come this way, and cursing all the while, she'd followed them.

"This time he just MIGHT end up in a mutton stew! How does he keep getting out of that pasture?? I can't find anywhere he's pushed through the fence, it's all in place, no sections down. Still, every time I turn my back, the wooly git is halfway to hell and gone!" she fumed outloud. This was the first time the rambunctious ram had made his way to what she had always thought of in her mind as The Wilderness, and a good thing too; this wasn't something she wanted to do very often.

A wild 'mea mea' to her left pointed her in the right direction but with increased caution. Duggan usually was much more mellow in his sounds, and that one had sounded angry or frightened, and she'd not seen him frightened by much. {"I'm not sure he's bright enough to be frightened by much!"}

She rounded the bottom of a rock slide in time to see just what had frightened the big ram, {"yes, well, that'd do it!"}

Although the wild boars were supposedly gone from this area, killed off, obviously that wasn't entirely true; and even worse, this one had gathered a few followers, probably formerly domestic sows he'd stolen, it not taking a lot for a sow to go feral. Duggan, and now Caeide, were now facing one very annoyed boar, and a trio of large menacing pigs. If she'd been on horseback, with a rifle or shotgun, it wouldn't have been quite so bad, though still very dangerous, but on foot, with a knife and a revolver, it wasn't a good situation at all; she knew it could easily take more than two shots to take down a big pig with a revolver, even precisely aimed, and a wounded pig was even more dangerous. She tried backing toward the rockslide, thinking to get up a few feet for a better angle, but the boar rushed her, and she had to fire early. A headshot, but not enough; the skull was just too thick, her revolver just not having the power. But it slowed him enough so she could get to the rockslide and out of the way of his rush, though she cut her leg in the scramble.

Adrenaline was pumping, and she felt that slowing down of time she hadn't felt in at least the past year. The Warrior moved forward, but, unlike the other times, Caeide didn't move back; somehow they were together, forming one more powerful than either alone. She knew this wasn't the way it was supposed to be; one only in control - Woman, Warrior, Wolf, that was what she'd been taught. {"Trust me to do it differently, seems I've a rare talent for that,"} she thought absently while preparing for the battle in front of her, thinking of her also rare Ta-Shea bonding. She gave a incredulous chuckle as she felt her Wolf simmering right under the surface, {"I wonder if that's possible, all three at once??!"} and had to wonder just what that would look like! That Yank movie, The Wolfman, came to mind. Though in her later years, when the Star Wars movies reached them, she could never quite explain to the others what had caused her wild uncontrolled laughter. And there were a couple of other things about that particular sharing of aspects that came as a shock! The pigs, led by the wounded boar charged, and all hell broke loose!

 

***

There was a flurry of activity in the compound, prisoners gathered around, guards trying to see what the noise was about. Hogan left the Kommandant's office in a hurry, "Hey, what's the commotion?" only to see Newkirk sprawled flat on the ground, unconscious.

"Mon colonel, we were playing net ball and, I don't know, he was running for the ball and then he was down. I did not see what happened, but he's out cold." They carried him into the Barracks, put him in Carter's bunk and sent for Wilson.

"I don't know, Colonel, I can't find anything, and no one saw what happened, or says they came anywhere near him. We'll just have to wait til he comes to," the medic said in some frustration. Usually with these guys, it was more than obvious what had happened, a bullet, a knife, barbed wire, a rifle butt or a heavy fist, even the illnesses that kept making the rounds through the camp, but this time, no. They'd have to wait til he came round, but as to when that might be, well, it was anyone's guess.

***

Carter pulled the blankets from Newkirk's bunk, and his thin lumpy pillow he'd made from bits and pieces down to the floor and settled down for the night. Newkirk had been out since a little after 3pm, and after Wilson had left, telling them to keep an eye on the limp figure sprawled in Carter's bunk, the guys had alternated, either sitting on a chair by the bunk, or more often from the long bench next to the table, LeBeau, Kinch, Carter, even the Colonel for a little while before he left to talk to the Kommandant. Now, roll call was over, lights out was just a few minutes away. The guys had worked together, getting him out of his uniform and into his nightshirt; they figured he might be more comfortable that way. Carter hadn't asked anyone, he just started to make preparations to take the night watch; Hogan had frowned at him a bit.

"Carter, you're likely to get stepped on there; just use his bunk and keep an ear out if he starts making noises like he's having trouble breathing."

Carter nodded vaguely, and did so, but once the lights were out and he could hear the sounds of the sleeping men, and the faint snore from Hogan's quarters, he went back to where he knew he had to be, where he belonged. He felt eyes on him, and looked around. LeBeau was sitting up, watching; then, the small Frenchman gave him a firm nod of acknowledgement, of approval, lay back down, sighed and went to sleep. He would try to wake early in the morning, before the Colonel, in time to see Carter was back in that upper bunk. It would be best that way.

It was probably a little past 1am when he stood up from the soft rug underneath him and looked around, but as always it was daytime here. Caeide was asleep in the easy chair, Peter stretched out in that big bed within her hand's reach, not looking much better than he had in Carter's bunk. Caeide woke with a start, sensing the other's presence.

"Andrew? Andrew, what the hell is going on, do you know??" she asked him in frustration.

"I don't know, Caeide. He got hurt, or at least he passed out, during the ball game; no one saw what happened. He's been unconscious ever since."

She shook her head, {"did I do this, did WE somehow do this? That three-part joining was unprecedented, as far as I know! Could it have caused this through my bond to him?"}

After the battle with the boar and his tribe, after she'd done what needed to be done, she'd made her way back to her mare, and headed home, Duggan following at the end of a long rope, complacent for once, though she had no hopes of that continuing for long.

She made a point of stopping by the church, to tell the Reverend Miles that there was fresh-killed meat in the wild area, and just where; she knew he'd arrange for a group of the few able men they had left, yes, and a few of the women as well, to go and claim it before the predators took too much. She reminded him of the dangers there, and that it was a one time arrangement; no one was to go over there again unless she gave her permission, and he agreed to let everyone know.

When she told him just what was waiting, boar and three large pigs, heaped and covered, he could hardly believe her, and he wondered if her injuries had caused her mind to fog. Then he snorted to himself at the thought; anyone less likely to have a fogged mind he'd never met. He exclaimed over her clothing, ripped at the seams, shredded in places, at the bloodstains, but she brushed him off, saying she could tend to herself, and that no, she didn't want any share of the meat. Actually, she thought the taste would make her gag; she wasn't sure how long it would be before she got the taste out of her mouth now. {"How can roast pork taste so good when . . . YECHH!"}

She knew they'd be shocked at the scene, but, wasting the meat was not acceptable considering the need in this area, leaving that much to rot and stink and draw carrion eaters was almost as bad, and there was no way she could have buried the bodies or covered them with rock. She'd barely managed the butchering needed to hide the most evident cause of the damage, making that long trek back to her mare for the spare blankets and ties, piling it all in place and covering it against flies. 

She'd gotten home, undressed and washed off most of the blood and muck downstairs, tended the cuts, and made her way painfully up to her room, only to find Peter stretched out unconscious on her floor. She couldn't wake him, couldn't find any injuries, so she did the only thing she could, she got him up on her bed, put cool cloths to his neck and head, and waited. She was afraid to undress him; if he got pulled back, she wasn't sure of the results on the other end, and his nightshirt seemed comfortable enough.

She noted the new scar on his face, traced it with her fingers; she noted his hands, the new damage, and she frowned, knowing how important his hands were to everything he prided himself upon; she went to get the healing creme she made, massaging it in softly, thoroughly, taking time to work the joints but very carefully. She pushed his sleeves up and continued as far as she could without removing his nightshirt; luckily the sleeves were loose, so she was able to massage up into his shoulders. She stood back looking at him for a bit, then continued, after unbottoning the buttons at the top of his shirt, massaging the front of shoulders, top of arms. She could see the muscles relaxing now, moment by moment, and she moved to his feet, cracked and dry, working her way upwards to his shoulders again, then gently rolling him to his stomach, turning his head gently to one side, continuing the healing massage with the creme. {"Yes, he is definitely less drawn now, that did no harm, though whether it did any good for what is causing this, I can't say."}

She went and got nourishment mid-evening, but settled down in the chair beside the bed again to wait this out. {"I've spent perhaps more time in a chair next to the bed where he's laying than you'd consider reasonable, for relatively small time we've been together,"} she thought to herself, just before she drifted into a light sleep.

She dreamed of him, even in her sleep seeing him laying there, and heard herself asking out loud, "why is he here? What am I to provide for him? Why hasn't he gone back like he always does?" only to see a shadowed figure next to her, "he belongs here; he's being hurt there; he needs to stay here," and she swallowed heavily as she recognized her Warrior, the one who lived inside of her, {"well, most of the time anyway; seems she has a bit of a presence of her own!"}

"Is he there, as well as being here, like he has been on other visits?" to get a solemn nod. "Is he unconscious there too? And what happens if he doesn't go back, what happens to each of him?" This was starting to confuse even her, and the stubborn look on her Warrior's face worried her more than a little. Then she roused, and looked around the room to find her self alone, except for Peter, sighed and went back to sleep.

Now, she was awake again, to find Andrew had come as well. {"Well, I should have expected that; he'd be concerned about Peter, and not content to just wait if Peter had gone wandering again."} 

She got coffee and sandwiches while Andrew sat beside Peter; she paused when she came back with the tray, to see the young man sitting on the bed, his hand on Peter's arm, talking to him so softly she couldn't hear the words. {"And rightly so, I'm sure,"} she thought with sympathy for one in much the same position she was in. She made sure to click the tray on the door frame to let him know she was there, and he turned to her, their eyes meeting.

"Caeide, when it gets light back there, it'll pull me back; what about him?" And he asked her the same question she'd asked her Warrior, "what happens if he doesn't go back, what happens to each of them?" And she had to admit, she didn't know.

After Andrew had eaten, she got out the healing creme again, showed him what to do, and left him there, providing whatever ease he could, getting whatever comfort he could thereby get in return. As for herself, as she told Andrew, she was going to see if she could get some answers. The questions he had in his eyes at that statement, well, he didn't speak them, maybe knowing he'd not understand the reply.

She couldn't afford the time to get to the SunStone, and beside, there was nothing magical about that place; it was just that was where they were all accustomed to go when they walked the MoonPaths to seek answers. She went only to the wide porch off the kitchen, settled herself down to go in search of answers. To her, it seemed like it had been hours, though in this realm it was only a matter of minutes; answers she had, answers she didn't like, and she knew she had a difficult task before her. 

She sat there, and called to her Warrior, trying to coax her out, to speak with her, and reluctantly, her Warrior came.

"He is being hurt there, he needs to stay here," her Warrior was insistent.

"And if that were possible, I would agree, you know that, you know how much I want him to be here, to be safe; but it isn't possible, not like this. They must rejoin, they must be together; if they are kept apart, they will each be only a piece of who he is, and they will falter, and they will die, and they may never be rejoined, not even into the next life. We cannot want that for him, either of us."

It took time, it took pleading, but the Warrior set aside her stubborn will and agreed, "he must go back, they must be rejoined, yes." But she stiffened her back, her head tall and proud, "but he must not go back alone, unguarded. He is not strong enough, now, not alert enough."

"Andrew . . ."

"Yes, he helps, and he is valued and loved, but he will not be enough." The Warrior stopped, her stern face thoughtful, "I will stay close to him, I can help guard him, warn him," and Caeide's eyes grew big and her mouth opened in awe.

"You can do this? At what risk, at what cost?" eagerly but with caution; in her experience, everything had a cost, and the more valuable things, well, they usually came with a very high cost.

The Warrior looked at her consideringly and tilted her head to one side, nodded, "yes, a risk, a cost, but more to you than to him."

"Yes, very well then, so be it!" and the Warrior smiled at her lovingly but with some amusement.

"Perhaps you should hear the risk, the cost to you, and to him, before you agree, do you think, my sister?"

And Caeide smiled back, "I will listen, but my answer will not change, I warrant," and the Warrior explained.

For Peter, the risk that he would not heed the warnings he'd be given, that he would think himself imagining things and not pay attention, not obey the commands she might have to give; the risk of being doubted or misunderstood by his companions, which could carry its own risk; all probably not increasing the danger for him more than he now faced.

For Caeide, well, every trap the Warrior helped him avoid, every ill fate and punishment she helped him avoid, all would visit itself upon Caeide in the form of nightmares, from uneasy to horrific depending on the circumstances the Warrior was able to avoid for him; for her, it would be as if it all did happen. And she would know things, things she might have preferred not to know, see things she might have preferred not to see, and the emotions that came from that could, probably would be highly unpleasant. And if the Warrior was unable to protect him, Caeide would know it, and there might be physical signs, stigmata; if he died while under her protection, Caeide would die also. Finally, if they did survive, the strain from doing this could easily tear the Warrior, even the Wolf away, leaving Caeide only the Woman, only a third of who she was meant to be, with no knowing of how that would follow her into the next life and beyond.

Caeide inhaled deeply, {"yes, risk on both sides, cost on both sides. This could affect my tending Haven; I will have to explain to the Clan, ask for help. If he dies . . . truly, that would not change my ending; I'd not survive his death even without this intercession. For the other, well, even having all three manifest at once is unknown, it only makes sense that the outcome of this is also unknown. For him, though, I'll not let this opportunity to help him pass me by."}

"Will I be allowed, will it hurt your efforts, if I take the herbs to lessen nightmares, use the techniques to lessen the impact, the end result, so that I might continue to serve Haven as it has been given to me to serve?" relieved to be told that so much could be done with no ill effect on the Warrior's efforts.

"Andrew needs to know what we are doing," and as the Warrior started to protest, she explained, "Andrew loves him, he loves Andrew, though they dare not express or show that where they are, even admit to it, especially with Hogan in charge. They would be in danger from him, from the Nazi's, from their fellow prisoners, I've no doubt. But they DO show support for each other, and the others accept that as a brotherly thing. Andrew can reassure him if he starts to think he's imagining things, can encourage him to accept the help, can be at least one person who believes him, who will not doubt him. Someone who can help him resist the pressure to do that which is unwise."

The Warrior frowned, considering, thinking on the young man she'd seen in the room above. "Let us go to them, I will look at him, and see," and they made their way upstairs. 

Andrew had finished the massaging of the creme, {"boy, I wish we had this at camp; maybe it'd help, it even made my hands feel better just rubbing it into his!"} He hoped she'd come back soon; he was getting really worried that he'd be pulled back, leaving Peter behind, not knowing how to help the Peter on the other end of this strange path they kept traveling. He was relieved when he heard her steps in the hallway, and the look on her face was serious, but not bad like she'd not found any answers, just like the answers maybe weren't easy ones. Well, he'd not found many easy answers in this war either.

She stepped closer to him, cupping one side of his face in her hand, "Andrew, will you let me look at you, let us look at you?" and he stared at her in confusion.

"But you are looking at me!"

She gave a very wry smile, "I mean inside, Andrew, really deep inside. Will you let us, me," and she paused, "me and my Warrior?"He didn't understand, of course, but he looked at her and knew she'd not hurt him, meant him no harm, and she wouldn't be asking if it wasn't something she thought could help Peter.

"Whatever you need to do, Caeide," he said trustingly, earning an even bigger smile, a small wondering shake of the head, and a kiss on his forehead. He waited, swallowing deeply as a figure formed next to the woman, similar to hers, but with a more warlike appearance, a strong and stern look on her face, her mouth straight, unforgiving. The second figure moved closer, til she too reached out her hand, laying it to the other side of his cheek, and he felt his eyes closing at her bright stare. 

"You were right, he can help, will want to help. But understand, he will bear a cost as well, and there may be risk."

Andrew looked from one to the other, and they turned to him, Caeide sitting beside him. They explained what the Warrior intended, the risks and costs to Peter, to Caeide, and to him, if he chose to help. If he decided against this, the Warrior could remove this memory so he'd never know.

He frowned sharply at the idea they thought they'd even have to ask, "of course I'll help, whatever he needs!"

And the Warrior smiled, {"his response was so close to hers; this one, he is truly much loved!"} And she remembered that it had been so before, as well, though her memory of those times was hazy. Now, she explained that he too might have dreams, though that was not a certainty. But that he would be at risk just by association, in trying to protect Peter; he might be laughed at or scorned; and still they might not be successful; it might all come to a bad end; that the Warrior could help, but not form a shield around Peter, around Andrew. And if Peter died, there was a possibility that Andrew would suffer harshly, perhaps die as well, as Caeide would for certain.

"I told you, I'll help; just tell me what to do!" came as a strong and clear answer.

"Then rest, til you are called back. You will know what to do. There will be a sign," and she formed it for him, "your Peter already knows of it. It means, very simply, "Stop, do not go further, or basically," smiling at him, "the fuse is set for 10 seconds, get the hell out of here!" and he chuckled at her in acknowledgement.

"You will both be warned, if possible; but for this to work, you both must accept and act on those warnings, and you know as well as we do his temperment. He tends to be, um, 'slightly stubborn'?" grinning now at both of them, receiving wry laughs in return.

"Yes, well that phrase is one way of putting it; I've expressed it rather more strongly on one or two occasions," Caeide admitted, with Andrew nodding in agreement.

"Now, rest, both of you; give him as much comfort of your presence as you can, take as much comfort as you can, til the call comes."

And she was gone. They looked at each other, and without a word, in solid agreement with each other, they stretched out beside the silent figure on the bed, each laying a hand on him, nestled as closely as was possible, one to each side, and waited, awake, waiting, touching, waiting, til the call came, and she watched as they both faded from her view. Only the impressions on the bed linens gave any indication that she'd not spent this night alone. And she sighed and settled down to sleep, knowing on the morrow she would have to put in place the safeguards that would be needed. {"I'll call the Grandmother, she'll know what needs to be done. I'll not deny him this chance, no matter the cost,"} she though in resolve as she drifted into sleep.

***

Roll call would be coming soon, and LeBeau was just rousing, remembering what he needed to do. He turned over, starting to get up, to be greeted by the sight of Andrew, bedding all now tucked safely away, sitting on the side of his bunk, smiling down at a drowsy but awake Englishman. Andrew heard the movement, looked over at LeBeau, and whispered, "Hey, Louie. He started to wake up just a few minutes ago. After Roll Call, I'll go get Wilson to look him over, but I think he's going to be okay."

And he was, though he wasn't able to explain to any of them just what had happened; he truly didn't know, and figured it was best to just go with "I 'aven't a clue, mates!" He knew Andrew knew something; he could usually read his young friend well enough to figure that out, but it was some time before they had the time and privacy to really talk.

"You're bloody well joking, right, Andrew??!" Usually not at a loss for words, this situation had pretty well left him speechless. Andrew drew the symbol in the dirt at their feet, and Peter stared, whispered, "oh, bloody 'ell, you aren't joking!" He turned his now pale face to Andrew, "at was one of the signs we used back then, the 'everythings gone pear shaped, get the bloody 'ell outta 'ere!' sign. Didn't 'ave to use it more than once or twice, but it wasn't one to ignore by any means, not if you wanted to go on breathing free air. So, let me get this straight, 'er 'Warrior' will be keeping tabs, like, and giving us a bit of a warning when she can?"

"Keeping tabs and giving you a warning, me if she can, she's not sure she can. But, Peter, it'll only work if you listen to her; you can't let anyone make you do anything different, including," and he paused, looked up at his taller friend, "including the Colonel. He's not going to know what she knows, he'd never believe it if we tell him, and he's not going to like it, we both know that; but it's what has to be done."

"And why all of a sudden? Why now, not before?"

Andrew told him, "she doesn't know, except all three of her 'aspects', whatever that means, appeared at once when she ran into some really, really bad trouble; she says that isn't even supposed to be able to happen, but when it did, once it was over and you'd appeared on her bedroom floor, the Warrior offered to do this."

Peter fussed and fumed and argued, and in the end Andrew got him with one simple question, one simple argument, "in the long run, it all comes down to whether you trust her, Peter. Whether you think she really wants to help you, wants to protect you? Would be willing to sacrifice this much for you." and Peter swallowed deeply, remembering all she'd done, that year in London, through the years, since he'd been in the camp.

"When you put it like that, Andrew, well, only one person I'd trust anywhere near as much as I trust 'er."

"Hogan," Andrew said with a somewhat sad nod.

"Not bloody likely, Andrew. Only person I'd trust as much as I trust Caeide, that'd be you, Andrew; that'd be you, with Louie and then Kinch coming along next, acourse." And he smiled ruefully at his Andrew, wanting to reach out for him, knowing it wasn't possible, but showing that want in his eyes, to see the look reflected back in the other man's eyes, and they made themselves be content with that.

***

And so it went, the number of close calls were exclaimed over, certainly; the number of times Newkirk or Carter pulled away from a mission without it being completed increased, though always with a sound, if sometimes wildly untrue, explanation. Hogan fussed, but to his annoyance, they stood firm, and the others soon followed suit; LeBeau remaining firm in his decisions, honestly made, as to what he could and could not tolerate in terms of close quarters; Carter taking more breaks from the lab, deciding against using certain chemicals entirely, supported by the others; Kinch, well, when any took exception to his presence or his position in the camp, they found themselves taught the facts by the other three team members, and quite firmly, and while there might have been some continued animosity, it was kept to themselves, not by word or deed was it expressed, for fear of firm and quite painful reprisals.

Hogan felt a bit of his control slipping away from him, but explained it away to himself, knowing it was just part of his success as a leader, {"well, I formed a Command Team, I taught them to support each other, that's what they're doing. As long as they don't get too independent, I won't interfere."}

Still, it made him a little uncomfortable, this giving up of control, and he watched just a bit more carefully. Peter would occasionally balk at a warning, and want to go ahead, and Andrew would remind him of the price being paid in order to give him this help. Andrew had debated telling him all that, the price Caeide was paying now, the price she would continue to pay, the ultimate price she could end up paying, along with the price Andrew might pay. But now he knew he'd been right to do so, for that reminding was what helped bring Peter back to his senses, back to being more cautious, taking that warning when it came, instead of listening and heeding Hogan's grumblings and admonishments. Andrew now saw more than he wanted to, like Caeide, and sometimes his heart was sickened, and it was ever so hard to keep from showing his anger and resentment; only the thought that Peter needed him, that Caeide was depending on him, gave him that strength to endure, to carry on.

***

Mail call came, and with it a package for Newkirk, one from a A J Riley, in Brandonshire, England. He reread the note he'd received a few months ago, comparing it to the latest note that just came today. From before, the note had said, "Dear Peter, sorry old friend, I know it's been a long time; I've been out of the country and just got back to hear of your current 'home away from home'. I've been busy in the stillroom; you remember my hobby of working with the old herbal remedies. Well, found this little general 'scrapes and bruises' creme and thought of you, remembering those old days which were full of both! You might find this comes in handy." AJ

Now, the new note, complete with TWO tins, read:  
"Dear Peter, glad that 'scrapes and bruises creme' is working out well for you; will send more when I make the next batch. I've been busy in the stillroom again, after a hiatus for a different project, and I just came across this old recipe. I tweaked it a bit, found it does a nice job for things like Maude's old problem, like that oil I used to put together back in Stepney, remember. If you find it useful, that it's of benefit to you, please let me know and I'll send more." AJ

Andrew came to look, and took a good sniff. {"That's it! That's that creme she gave me to use on his hands!"} and gave a tiny pointed grin to Peter, who looked at him questioningly. But then Peter raised the tin to his nose and remembered that faint tangy herbal smell, remembered that when he'd woke up that morning, his hands felt better, {"bloody 'ell, I felt better all the way from my shoulders down, even my feet weren't so cracked and aching!"} and knew she'd found this way to help him as well. He found the image of her using that creme on him, 'from the shoulders on down,' which she must have, quite pleasing, and he knew it would figure in one of his more pleasant thoughts; he'd never allowed himself to purposely have fantasies about her, but 'pleasant thoughts', well, it was amazing how broad a category that could be. He sat, shaking his head at her, again thinking of those words he now associated with her, {"without fail, that's my Caeide alright, without fail!"}

"This might be right useful for me 'ands, you know, Andrew; that oil he fixed up back in Stepney, did a good job for such and other things as well. Nice to 'ave an old friend come through like that, right nice," nodding pleasantly.

And he wrote 'AJ' with thanks and he told about how his friend Andrew Carter here at camp was always getting bruises and now starting with Maude's old problem, and how much those cremes had helped, and next mail call, there was a package from Dr Riley for Andrew as well, with a tin of each. And it did help, both helped, and they shared them with their team mates as needed, and each mail call brought a fresh supply for each of them, without fail, well, except for the time or two the Germans raided the mail and confiscated what they wanted, but still most of the times, it arrived, and was received with pleasure and thanks.

***

She'd received the help she asked for from the Clan, a young cousin who came to train and who was eager to work and learn. That worked well.

And then, there was another opportunity, though she'd not thought of it as an opportunity to receive aid, but as an opportunity to give aid, give sanctuary, to let Haven become what she'd dreamed of it becoming, truly a safe 'Haven' for those she cared for in their time of need. According to the radio reports, the East End had been battered in the blitz, with much destruction, much confusion ensuing.

She thought, and sent an urgent message to her brothers Patrick and Michael, asking them to search for Maude and Marisol and Mavis, offering assistance, offering refuge if they'd accept it. She was very close to Maude and Marisol, though not at all to Mavis, though she made the same offer out of love for Peter. She waited, and talked through her invitation with Reverend Miles; he listened, they discussed it, he made a suggestion or two, she waited. Finally she got word.

Mavis was appreciative, truly so it seemed according to Patrick, but she'd found a place, had met someone, was building a life even amidst the war, and had no desire to leave, not at this time. Still, she did send her thanks. She was also sent the message, "and I've heard from Peter; that your letters finally came to him, after being mislaid for so long, after he'd thought he'd been forgotten," that statement telling Caeide perhaps a bit of why Mavis had been so cold, almost angry when she inquired whether Mavis knew where Peter was being held, "and how much they mean to him. For that, I also thank you." Mavis and Caeide might never be friends, but there was a new acceptance there now, a new understanding.

As for Maude and Marisol, they had lost everything; were in one of the many temporary shelters, and were most appreciative of the offer, and would gladly accept her hospitality. One of the brothers would bring them as soon as possible. Caeide sat back, thinking of what needed to be done to make them welcome, {"and welcome they will be, my two old friends."}

***

The nightmares came, and she woke screaming in the night, wet with sweat, gagging with bile at the back of her throat. At odd times, she'd find her vision fading and see what she'd not want to see, what she sickened to see; her mare was becoming accustomed to finding the saddle empty, her rider on the ground beside her, vomiting onto the ground before her; she became resigned to treating the bruises and cuts she got in the process.

One evening, she went to her knees with pain, gasping, crying, and when it was over, she looked over her shoulder in horror at the bleeding stripes, the mark of a whip. She'd had to call Leona to clean them, to put salve on them, and Leona had started to ask the questions so evident in her eyes, but stopped - she'd been told to expect strange occurrences, including the stigmata, and just to accept, just to do what she could to help, and she did so.

The interactions with Hogan were difficult for her; she'd get glimpses of the anger and the hurt, and her anger would arise as well; once she found herself on the receiving end of seductive caresses, and unable to block them from her mind, sought refuge in the decanter of bourbon on her dresser; she wondered later whether the episode of porcelain-hugging was from too much bourbon or from the memory of his touch sickening her or a combination of the two. More than once the caresses weren't quite seduction, more demands, then more than demands, and anger and pain and humiliation warred in the sensations she was obviously sharing now; that didn't result in sickness, but in an extended workout in the training room, with revolver and knife. More than once she mentally carved Hogan's name on a marker for a place on that far hillside well known to the family. More than once she thought up some inventive ways to show her intense displeasure with him, though she knew that to be mere self indulgence on her part and probably not healthy and she tried to limit that, though she never managed to eliminate it entirely.

All of that continued, the nightmares, the visions, though the stigmata was an infrequent occurrance, giving her hope he was avoiding some of the possible hurts; some of those marks faded, the more inconsquential ones, though the ones on her back never totally did so, and there were a couple of others she carried, as well. Hogan, well, she gave up fighting the impulse; she started a nice big marker, and gradually carved his name, added embellishments around the edges, and kept at it, as a form of therapy. There were mornings that would find her sitting on the porch, after taking care of the big stock, steadily working on that marker. There came a time when she realized she had no more room, front OR back. {"It's pretty full now, I may have to start an 'annex'"}, she thought to herself with what was almost a chuckle. It was a memorable morning when she rode to that far hillside and staked out a plot, lining it with stones and placing the marker at the head of it, with another small sign that said only "Reserved". As a symbol, it was pretty conclusive, and she found it of some comfort. There were some days she made a point of visiting that hillside just to remind herself.

***

Maude and Marisol arrived, exhausted from the journey and from what they'd gone through. She was still trying to get quarters ready for them, but furniture was still not found or made, not such that she'd like for them to have, and she didn't intend to ask them to use pallets! She'd thought to give over her own large room to them, her large bed she'd spend such time and labor making, wood frame hand hewn and slotted to fit together, til she got theirs ready, and was prepared to take her clothes, her bedroll into the furthest room for that, knowing her nightmares would wake them if she was too close. If that room wasn't far enough, well, she could spend the nights at the old homestead; those walls and the space between would ensure her demons did not become theirs.

They wouldn't hear of it, even though she told them of the wild nightmares, the screaming she woke herself to. "Well, we both have some of those, deary. If you put up with ours, we'll put up with yours." She reluctantly agreed, thinking they'd change their minds shortly enough, and they shared the big room while getting their rooms ready. They were right, they did have nightmares. Not every night, like she did, but still frequently enough, intense enough, that the sharing didn't seem like such an imposition on them. They woke each other up, they fetched cool water, cold cloths, held each other through the shaking and the tears and worse, and each felt herself lucky to have someone there when the night terrors came. And when the other rooms were ready, it was with some slight reluctance they gave up the closeness, but soon found that warm arms, and a calming voice was always at hand when there was need, and they were comforted, and gradually, Haven became home for them as well.

Leona stayed, til the day came when Maude and Marisol had taken on enough of the day to day activities to make her presence no longer necessary. She left, with the warmest of thanks, and a deep feeling of satisfaction in being able to provide help when it was needed. She had one last conversation with Caeide, and had to ask, "and how are you going to explain it to them, if the wounds show again, when you need aid," and was told, "as best I can, probably that it is a Clan matter; they know about such, enough not to inquire too deeply, or so I hope. And they know the frequency to use to call for aid, if need be. Both are skilled at dealing with injuries, though, so I think, I sincerely hope that will be all that is needed,".

{"Oh, Sweet Mother, I do hope so, for if not, he is in deep trouble, trouble the Warrior wasn't able to help him with!"}

There were no more visits; Caeide never knew if it was there was so little sleep, so little energy available on their part that it wasn't possible, whether the presence of Maude and Marisol might have some impact, or that her Warrior was kept so busy taking care of her boys that the power on Caeide's side was too low to allow for the traveling; she did know she had no touch of the Warrior since that last meeting, nor any from her Wolf. She didn't know if the absence of her Wolf was from lack of need, or whether her Wolf was helping the Warrior with her lads. She'd not begrudge that, certainly, and only wished them all blessings!

She kept up the letters, of course, but she hadn't heard from Peter in the past two months. The Red Cross said most communications were at a standstill, all was in turmoil. The nightmares, they came fast and furious; the visions, some so appalling she thought she'd descended into the very depths of the lowest level of hell, things she couldn't repeat for being thought truly mad, things she couldn't repeat for fear of being physically sick, for those, she sought comfort from Reverend Miles, and his old arms brought some measure of, if not comfort, at least sharing of the misery.

The stigmata, yes, more than once she had to get help from Maude and Marisol, so that one morning she was on the receiving end of a stern bit of questioning at the kitchen table; she was able to refrain from laughing, possibly because she hurt so badly. {"They thought that I might be doing this to myself! As what, some sort of punishment for being safe when Peter is NOT safe? Bless their hearts, I'm not sure I'd even know how to cause that last bit of damage I, HE, took."}

She explained, as best she could, that it was a Clan thing, stigmata, a price she paid for a favor given, not something she could talk much about, but certainly not something she'd done to herself, but not something she could avoid either. {"Though, in a way, I guess I did, since I agreed to the possible outcome of this arrangement. But, that would confuse them even more."}

They didn't understand, though possibly Maude came closer than Caeide would ever know, from the very sad and questioning look she received from the older woman, and from then on, they helped, but did not scold. And throughout it all, they waited. Waited for this bloody war to come to an end. Waited for that madman in Germany to be defeated. Waited for their lad to come home. They waited.


End file.
